


I Say Not Another

by Whimgenuity



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Drama, F/F, Romance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-04-19 06:14:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14231091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whimgenuity/pseuds/Whimgenuity
Summary: Contrition is a fine gift for the unsung hero of Arcadia Bay. That one week culminated in a last, desperate choice with consequences that have proven too much for her restless conscience to bear. So it's with a heavy heart that Max Caulfield reprises her role as time traveler extraordinaire and makes a modest alteration to the cloth of fate that leaves her in hot pursuit of a girl on the run.





	1. Strike the Slate

**Chapter One, Strike the Slate**

Doom comes to Arcadia Bay right on time. Like a fond friend that knows better than to surprise or delay, it arrives as the very picture of punctuality. Hurricane force winds swing wide over the bay as the prologue to its calamitous embrace. All manner of debris whirls around the tremendous cyclone that now blots out the horizon and the sky. Maxine Caulfield and Chloe watch from beneath the old lighthouse, although the two of them are unable to appreciate the apropos of the setting. The winds howl, the waves crash, and the rain is a dull roar all its own, but Max pours her heart out right into that great noise anyway.

"This is my storm. I caused this...I caused all of this. I changed fate and destiny so much that I actually did alter the course of everything. And all I really created was just death and destruction!"

Chloe is too astonished to formulate a response. She's preoccupied with staring blankly at the churning tornado and trying to wrap her mind around the sheer scale of the storm about to obliterate their hometown. Max had described it in passing exactly once. It was during a rare panic attack when she gave it a brief mention that was laced with dire warnings. The poor thing had seen this coming in her visions and must have spent all the time since feeling responsible for averting the disaster.

Now that she has Chloe's attention, Max sweeps her left arm towards the carnage unfolding below them, as if it somehow wanted for emphasis. Shaking off the stupor, Chloe takes a step towards her friend and looks straight into those blue eyes. The time has come to say what she's kept to herself for too long.

"Fuck all of that, okay? You were given a power. You didn't ask for it and you saved me." Words filled with sympathy.

"Which had to happen, all of this did...except for what happened to Rachel. But without your power we wouldn't have found her!" Words filled with respect.

"Okay, so you're not the goddamn Time Master, but you're Maxine Caulfield and you're amazing." Words filled with admiration. All of it for Max.

Chloe produces the photo of the blue butterfly and Max takes it from her with shaking hands, stares at it through the driving rain. How odd to think that this single photo could save Arcadia Bay. She has to make Max understand that none of this has to happen.

"All that would take is for me to...to..." Chloe's words are choked with grief.

_None of this has to happen._

"Fuck that! No...no way!" Max interjects in a spirited rebuttal. "You are my number one priority now. You are all that matters to me." But even she knows that these desperate words won't change a goddamn thing.

For some long moments they go back and forth on the subject of the worth of one 'selfish' life (emphasis Chloe's) balanced against that of an entire town and the people in it. But they're just arguing semantics at this point and they know it; nothing they could ever say will turn back the storm. There is one choice to make and that choice means everything. With all discussion well and truly spent, Chloe gives herself over to the emotions that have been running rampant in her mind.

"Max, you finally came back to me this week, and, you did nothing but show me your love and friendship."

There is a pause punctuated by the glow of lightning and the clap of thunder.

"You made me smile and laugh," Chloe's voice betrays her midway through the sentence and jumps up an octave, "...Like I haven't done in years." Years of hiding behind rage and apathy and regret are stripped away as she bares her innermost self. "Wherever I end up after this, in whatever reality, all those moments between us were real, and they'll always be ours."

As she listens a myriad of emotions swim through Max's pale blue eyes without pause or patience. Some of them have names. Some don't.

"No matter what you choose," Chloe softly adds, "I know you'll make the right decision."

Max utters her next words to her best friend with the appropriate trepidation. "Chloe, I can't make this choice..."

Chloe takes a moment to breathe and take a good, hard look at her best friend. "You're my hero, Max. I'll always love you."

Overcome with emotion, the two girls embrace initially but it spills over into a passionate kiss. The warmth and the skin-to-skin contact leaves them both breathless. Afterwards they're nervous wrecks and neither of them is quite ready to do what must be done. Unfortunately, they have no say in the matter. A reluctanct Max disentangles herself from Chloe, gives her one last heartbroken smile, and looks down to the photo of the blue butterfly in her shaking hand. As the world around her blurs and swims and runs together Chloe's last words reach her through the commotion.

"And Max Caulfield? Don't you forget about me."

* * *

People of all stripes gather around the gravesite to witness the last rites of Chloe Price. They crowd in to offer their farewells and then promptly form into clots to swap rumors of her life outside earshot of her parents. They're so busy gossiping that the majority don't notice that a blue butterfly has come to rest on the polished veneer of the casket. Max, meanwhile, can't seem to take her eyes off it. Its presence begs the question: what if? What if she went back and sacrificed this town and most everyone in it instead of her dearest friend? She reprimands herself for even entertaining the thought and clasps her hands tightly together in front of her waist. Today is about Joyce and today is about David, it wouldn't be right to let her suffering distract from that. With or without the presence of the blue butterfly.

No one else at the funeral really knows about the rise and fall of Chloe across the slim span of just five days. All of those events are locked away in a different time and place. So the stream of wellwishers just keeps on offering those meager condolences and generic words of pity to Joyce and David. Never anything of substance, though, because this Chloe's troubled life ended on the girl's bathroom floor with her blood pooling on the tiles. She died alone, never meeting Max again or ever learning that Rachel was long dead. In a way, then, Max was as dead to her as Rachel.

Sorting the consequences of her own actions leaves Max struggling to stifle the sobs. Joyce reaches over and gives Max's shoulder a reassuring squeeze before sharing a sad smile with her. Max nods in mute appreciation. The woman is a saint. Together the two stare into nowhere in particular, replaying the life and times of Chloe in their heads. After a couple of moments Max shuffles over to David and gives him a quick hug. He doesn't hesitate to wrap a protective arm around her but won't meet her gaze. Though his chest rises and falls to a shaky cadence his eyes are fixed on a point that's a thousand miles away. After a couple of seconds a silent David rouses from his trance and stoops over to pull Max into a strong but needy hug of his own. When he lets go at last, Max feels like she understands him a little better. She imagines that she can see past the dysfunction to a man that never got to know his daughter in time. It's another in a long line of sobering thoughts she's had lately. The funeral eventually concludes and its participants break off to start the long walk back down the hill. Max ponders what they'll take away from the experience. Everyone in attendance must be reflecting on the somber realization that nothing is forever, she decides, as they make their way back into the wider world.

Life in Arcadia Bay isn't the same for Max without the knowledge that Chloe is bumming around somewhere else in the town. The other students at Blackwell Academy prove unable to comprehend how she can be so deeply affected by the death of a friend she hadn't spoken to in five years. This sparks some genuine resentment from her in the early days but she's quick to pave over it by reaffirming that this is the best outcome. While that doesn't make it any easier to bear she manages to keep her composure and doesn't let her eyes linger on any old photos for too long. She's down at the Two Whales Diner some days after the funeral in the vain hope that some of Joyce's cooking will lift her leaden spirits. There's a still-steaming bacon omelette that lies resplendent upon a chipped, heavy-duty ceramic plate sitting in front of her. Even though she doesn't feel hungry yet Max savors the comforting aroma and soaks in the familiar atmosphere. Right when the first stirrings of hunger make themselves known they are immediately stamped right back down by the sight of Joyce emerging from the backroom with a box.

The box is packed to the brim with family photo albums and the dozens of loose photographs nested around them. The waitress sets it on the table with a resolute thump and doesn't say a thing. With an anxious sigh, Max reaches out with false bravado to pluck a random photograph from the pile. She takes a glance at it. Her glance morphs into tunnel vision and the world drops away except for the grinning faces of William and Chloe. Seeing those two happy faces again breaks something inside her because it's so far removed from where her life is now. Without pomp or circumstance, Max slides out of the booth and onto her feet. She sweeps Joyce into a hug as the first few tears squeeze out of her eyes.

"Max...?" Joyce looks on, concerned. But, hey, that's practically her default expression.

Max is out the door and stumbling down the sidewalk before she fully commits to crying her eyes out. Over the course of the last few days she has gone through the motions with friends and family while totally detached from any feeling or self-expression. That dam has cracked and now the misery and anguish sluices out of her with a vengeance. If there's any noise left in this Arcadia Bay it's lost to her for now, that includes her own sobs and groans. Only the ceaseless chatter of past conversations with Chloe plays through her head, over and over and over.

_Your power is changing everything, Max. Especially you. I can already tell._

Maxine Caulfield put on a good show by deluding herself into believing she could cope with the loss of Chloe. But nothing makes sense anymore. It is her great shame that she doesn't need a come up with a plan or to plot the course of what comes next. Because, if she's honest with herself, she's been doing it in the back of her mind ever since the day of the funeral. In a motion that's too practiced for her pride to admit, she pulls a photo out of the pocket of her jeans. This is the contingency, the 'in case of emergency break glass,' and the eject button if her life started going down in flames. It has.

Although she can't make out the finer details of the picture through the veil of tears she can still read what's written beneath it in bold sharpie: "Seattle '12". Max focuses intently on the photo until the world around her blurs at the edges. Time slows to a crawl as the faint whispers of her own voice drift from the photo. It's time to go.

Sorry Arcadia Bay, she thinks to herself, but you're not yourself. Not without her.

* * *

A hazy summer evening in the American Rust junkyard finds its two regulars locked in a battle of wills. Chloe sits cross-legged on the floor with a lit cigarette pinched tight between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. She hasn't bothered to smoke from it for a while, so the ash just periodically tumbles to the floor while she occupies her time with glaring at her companion. Said companion, one Rachel Amber, has her back propped against the wall opposite Chloe with her legs crossed neatly in front of her. At the moment her arms are folded across her chest in a posture of apparent disapproval. On the floor between them is a half empty bottle of cheap red that had seemed like a good idea at the time. After abstaining for a solid three minutes (probably a bid to bait Rachel into overreacting) Chloe takes a long drag on her cigarette and regards Rachel with an expression of guarded suspicion. Having arrived at some mysterious conclusion, she uses her foot to nudge the wine bottle closer to her companion.

"Have a drink." Chloe offers.

Rachel studies her best friend's face, trying and failing to suss out the other girl's intentions. Whenever Chloe picks a fight or starts an argument with her, it's always loud and emotional but typically straightforward. This is different. She's waiting for something and that's not in her nature. Case in point: when has Chloe Price ever exercised patience? "I think I'm all set for now, thank you."

Despite couching the response in an agreeable tone Chloe's eyes flash with a sudden intensity at her words. A mistake has been made but the consequence, like the antecedent, remains woefully undefined. "Not thirsty?"

Something's wrong in a big way if Chloe is fishing so patiently for a specific answer or reaction. Normally it wouldn't make sense for her to go this route since she knows Rachel is adept at turning words against their owners, which can only mean that she believes she holds all the cards in this arrangement. That narrows her options down significantly and although it pains her to do it, Rachel decides to force the issue. Sometimes the only way around is through. "If this about Max then I standby what I said. Four years of total radio silence, Chloe. Sporadic texts and letters don't make up for that."

The other girl cocks her head to the right, her cigarette almost to her lips, as she considers her companion with wary appraisal. At first she says nothing, just takes another drag and exhales, the puff of smoke climbing through the air at a languid pace. "So you've said a hundred times," Chloe pauses to think back, "...I don't think I've ever asked for your opinion on it. Like meth, not even once."

Refusing to be shutdown by the brusque reply, Rachel pushes ahead. "It's not like she ever came to visit after saying something, either. No, just: 'Surprise, I'm coming back home to go to Blackwell. Let's be friends again!'"

Chloe doesn't say anything. What should have incited the punk rocker to seethe and rage is instead a total non-event. She's so composed that it's actually eerie: there's no violent outburst, no cutting remark, and she doesn't so much as bat an eyelash on hearing it. In lieu of any of that, she takes one last pull from the cigarette and stubs it out against the concrete floor. "If a quarter of the energy you used on lecturing me on how to feel about Max was spent on actually talking to me, maybe it wouldn't have ended up like this."

"What are you..." Rachel starts to say.

"Where's your bracelet? I haven't seen you wear it in a long time."

_Oh._

Met with silence, Chloe brushes a stray lock of blonde hair out of her eyes and then audibly sighs. "It's funny, there was a time when I couldn't picture you without it. Don't worry though, I think I know where it is. Way easier to find," she emphasizes, "...if you're thirsty."

_Oh no._

There's a sudden pause as she shoots her companion a pointed look. It's an invitation for Rachel to speak, and thus, the rope to hang herself with. If she says nothing it would be an insult her best friend's intelligence. But anything she does say will confirm Chloe's suspicions beyond the shadow of a doubt. There's simply no good option here. "Chloe, I'm so, so sorry, I didn't know how to tell you."

"Bullshit. Bullshit! All you had to do was say something about getting with Frank. I wouldn't have liked it but I would've gotten over it. But you couldn't even give me that! Months later and you still don't have the guts to say it to my face." She doesn't wait around for an answer.

Just like that, Chloe is on her feet and striding out into the summer night with cold fury etched into her features."You can do so much better," Chloe mutters over her shoulder. In the rush to get to her feet and give chase Rachel accidentally knocks over the half-empty wine bottle and sends splashes of wine washing across the floor. "Fuck!" Temporarily blinded by anger, she gives the bottle a vicious kick that sends it straight into the nearest wall where it shatters into dozens of itty-bitty pieces. Somewhere in the distance an engine turns over as a truck roars to life. Rachel is met with a pair of tail lights speedily receding into the distance as she finally steps out of the shack.

"Shit."

She says it to no one in particular but it's a pretty decent summary of the night's events.

* * *

_Science is pretty great. The right kind of math, however, can be every bit as entertaining. The key to a more fulfilling relationship with mathematics? Learning how to identify the satisfying problems from the tedious busywork. One easy point of distinction is that the satisfying problems will tend to ask interesting, novel questions. This can be anything from just a new way to phrase an old problem to a problem that has real-world applications. Another mark of a quality mathematical problem is that it provides the opportunity to get creative with the problem-solving._

_Therefore, some of the most rewarding problems to solve are the ones that are not only unique in their application but also allow for a degree of creative freedom. Tonight provides Chloe with one such diamond in the rough: what's the magical number of longnecks that a girl needs to down before a lurking Nathan Prescott will belly up to your table in a dive bar with a lax policy on carding patrons? From the outset she had the feeling that striking upon the solution would be a real challenge. The math became more demanding and convoluted once the first bottle of watered-down beer ran dry. For a while it even looked like the answer might remain an unknown variable in a universe made up of the stuff. By the second bottle, though, the calculations became significantly more straightforward. After knocking back the third bottle the 'Eureka!' moment was at last achieved and mathematics finally got a hearty chuckle out of a severely depressed Chloe._

_"What's Chloe Price doing in a place like this without her pet Rachel?"_

_The answer is three. It takes three beers. Then Nathan 'Daddy Issues' Prescott will slither his way from the edge of the bar to the table of a drunk girl. And they said chivalry was dead. There's nothing left to do but fire back with a witty retort and then get back to drowning the misery in cheap beer. Well, maybe not a witty retort; it's been a long day and it'd involve rubbing her last two sober brain cells together. How about something rude enough to get a good reaction without winding up on the police blotter? Yeah, better aim for below the belt. "Yeah, I bet you want to pet Rachel all right. I've done it a couple times, s'nice. Wait, are you...are you seriously fuckin' blushing right now?"_  

* * *

It's raining in Seattle. Breaking news: water is also wet. Lying in bed is a Max who's enveloped in a cocoon of blankets and yet remains desperate for the sweet sanctuary of sleep. Kept awake by innumerable worries related to time travel, her sole reminder of the outside world is the steady rhythm of raindrops tapping on the window panes. Rather than obsessing over the well-being of her ex-best friend she's mulling over her research for a nice change of pace. Following the disasterous outcome from the previous timeline it had seemed prudent to do more research on causality. Definitions and explanations for terms like entropy, Butterfly Effect, Feigenbaum constants, fractals, and Chaos Theory gradually congealed into a notion of how it might work. Her ensuing hypothesis is that rewinding causes reverberations through the natural order of things. When too much 'reverb' builds up the storm goes from being a possibility to being guaranteed. If the reverb is kept to a minimum then nose bleeds, migraines, and visions are the worst Max has to put up with.

To this end the newly-christened Senior Timeologist Max Caulfield created what she calls the reverb budget to simplify things. It should be noted, however, that she went through several different names before settling on its official title. (The 'higgledypiggledy budget' and the 'time fuckery budget' were the other two contenders). The master plan was to prevent Chloe's ill-fated meeting with Nathan Prescott in the girl's bathroom at Blackwell. To accomplish this she used a photo from Seattle to go back a year before she met Chloe again. Then she sent her ex-best friend some texts over some weeks culminating in the news that she was applying to Blackwell for senior year. While Max had had yearned to go further back and completely un-fuck her relationship with Chloe there would have been a ton of reverb from doing it. Confirming to Chloe that she had received her acceptance letter to the school in July put her on better terms with the jilted punk rocker but their text exchanges remained...cooly distant.

No middle-of-the-night text conversations about whether or not Deckard's a replicant. No bitching about how unfair life is over the phone. As a matter of fact, it's been a whole year since she last heard Chloe's voice. Or felt that body pressed against her own.

Max grumbles and rolls over in her bed, frustrated.

_This sucks._

Tomorrow is moving day and any hope of getting a good night's sleep has been eradicated courtesy of a slight miscalculation she only became aware of three weeks ago. Since Chloe now knows that she's coming back to Arcadia Bay it means that they'll meet an entire month earlier than they did in the first go-around. That alone had some dire implications for her plan to save Arcadia Bay and Chloe but it was the next piece of news that sent her anxiety levels through the roof. For some reason, god only knows what did it, her actions prevented Rachel Amber's death. She found out when Chloe mentioned Rachel in passing during one of their brief texting sessions. At first she gave herself a mental gold star for saving a life without even trying and was quite pleased about it. Later on that same day she rescinded the gold star when it occurred to her that Rachel's presence was definitely going to wreak havoc on her plans. Between the meeting date moving up and the news about Rachel, well, there's no telling how events will play out once she arrives in Arcadia Bay. It's akin to going in blind.

_This means I have competition for Chloe's attention too. Not just any person, either, it's Rachel Amber! She's so gorgeous. Chloe must have a tough time keeping her hands to herself around that one. I mean, they've probably..._

Max, struck with a morbid curiosity, glances over at the digital alarm clock on her nightstand. It reads four-fifteen in the morning.

_They're probably...? Maybe right now?_

Despite her best efforts to resist, a slideshow of mental images plays out in her mind.

_Someone else's manicured hands slide down Chloe's bare midriff, their nails dragging against the soft flesh, until the hands slip inside her jeans in one smooth motion. Chloe's body tenses up involuntarily at their touch, like she's gasping, if only for a second._

Max's cheeks flush a brilliant red and she clears her throat loudly, only now aware of how carried away she's gotten.

 _I didn't want to sleep anyway._  

* * *

Blackwell's main building looms in the sky above the campus with the kind of weight and gravitas that one would expect from the Notre-Dame Cathedral, though the comparison shames the latter. Moving day has dawned at last and the school grounds are now packed with people from all walks of life. The crowd is full of eager students flanked by their concerned parents with some jealous siblings sprinkled in. The parents wear pained faces while they sort out last minute details and find token opportunities to delay the inevitable goodbyes with their children. Today finds the indomitable Max Caulfield plonked down on the topmost step of the stairs leading up to the campus proper, watching the cars' comings and goings with a vague sense of detachment. Her own parents have long since cleared out after helping move her into the dorm room. Now she sits regarding the flurry of traffic with a rueful smile; saying goodbye to her parents was no easier the second time around.

So she lets her attention drift to the burning questions of the day. How much will be the same? How much will have changed? What are the constants and variables at work here? Since the wide universe offers up no immediate revelations on the subject, she reaches into the messenger bag slung at her right hip and retrieves her camera. With deft hands and an artist's eye, Max angles the camera up-and-back to better catch the way Blackwell hangs over her in a selfie. Satisfied by what little she can see reflected in its lens, she snaps the photo. When the freshly-minted photo spits out of the camera she pinches it between two fingers and fans it through the air while it develops. A few passerbys raise eyebrows or make disparaging comments but she shrugs it off.

_Sorry fellow Blackwellians, I gotta be me._

Without taking so much as a glance at the picture she casually drops it into her messenger bag and gets up to begin the walk towards the dorm building. There's a persistent impression of dread tingling in her fingers and toes. Luckily, the familiar sights and sounds of this place are a balm to those overexcited nerves, so it's bearable. Somewhere between the dread and the joy of returning lies a melancholy that she now occupies. She catches herself wondering if it's already too late. Did her semi-regular contact with Chloe doom her to fail long before she made it to this homecoming? It's a distinct possibility.

The sight of Kate Marsh walking in her general direction drags Max back to the real world and plasters a dumb grin on her face. It's so, so good to see her old friend again. Although, she corrects herself, because they aren't technically friends yet. But soon they will be again. Tea time will return after these messages from our sponsors, folks! Kate must have seen her grin because she slows down to return the favor with a smile of her own. In light of this heartfelt moment shared with Kate, Max files a mental addendum noting that she and Joyce must both be angels sent down to restore this unclean Earth. Filled with that warm fuzzy feeling, she gives Kate a nod and resumes her quest for the dormitory entrance.

The proverbial fly in the ointment is that a certain blue-haired punk rock chick will not be putting in an appearance today. Maybe not tomorrow, either. A trio of texts citing some sort of 'need for space' along with a raincheck for their reunion made that clear. How often it rains in Arcadia Bay, actually? It's something to think about. Spotting Victoria in repose, leaned against the side of the dorm building and texting, she offers a shy wave and isn't the least bit surprised when the other girl glowers at her with that trademark contempt. Max looks down to the ground and just keeps on walking. Today's deciding moment will be when she meets the notorious Rachel. There's no telling what'll happen when she's face to face with the person that replaced her by Chloe's side. What little information she does have are scattered anecdotes and some secondhand accounts from people that knew her in the previous timeline. A muse to many, an angel to one, and an obsession to more.

_Who are you, Rachel?_

It's a question that'll have to wait because it's time to go meet the 'new' dormmates. Hah!

 

 

 

* * *

_Speed is enjoyable. No, not the drug: velocity, also known as the time rate of change of a position of a body in a specified direction, is fun. Through some alchemical process that has yet to be understood by modern science it can transform a crappy mood into a decent one with enough sharp turns and rolling hills. Seeing as yesterday was such a shitshow for Chloe it was just what the doctor ordered. Hanging out with Trevor and Justin at the skate park should have been downright therapeutic especially after all that weirdness the night before with Nathan 'My Wallet is a Benjamin Franklin Memorial' Prescott. And for a time, it absolutely was. Leave it to those two to get the lowdown on The Forks concert being held on Tuesday. But a couple of hours of shooting the shit later and here comes Frank. Because of course Trevor and Justin had gone through their weed stash for the week and needed a re-supply. Things were said. To clarify, unkind things were said. It soon became obvious that it was time to move on before Frank could sic Rachel on her. Hence Chloe doing eighty in a thirty-five on the way to the scorched husk where Firewalk played years ago._

_Frank Bowers, scuzzy drug drealer, and Rachel Amber, golden child of Arcadia Bay, making the beast with two backs. The question is, how does life get like this? If your best friend that means the world to you can lie to your face about not seeing anyone...then what other secrets do they hide? So, yeah, Chloe bombs through the bends and turns in the road with reckless abandon because shouting along to the lyrics in your ride is a hell of a lot easier than crying it out. Whenever her phone buzzes to notify of her another message she just takes that next turn a little faster than the one before it. Because it doesn't matter who it is. Maybe it's Rachel sending apology text number twenty-three (but who's counting?). Or maybe it's Frank telling her that she doesn't deserve Rachel, like he did yesterday. Perhaps it's Joyce wondering yet again if she's coming home tonight. Could be David, the step-douche himself, chiming in with more wildly ineffective 'orders' on how bad she needs to shape up. Any way you slice it that's a lot of people doing nothing more than repeating themselves ad nauseam._

_She slams on the brakes and nonchalantly turns off the radio as the truck screeches to a dead halt in front of the old mill. Chloe leans forward and folds her arms over the steering wheel, pondering the riddle that is her life. Something happened to her relationship with Rachel and it was no immediate thing. Gradual and insidious, it was. Or perhaps it had been there from the start. Some sort of disconnect between two people that once swore to take on the world for each other. With no answers forthcoming, she rifles through the glovebox for her last blunt before going on the hunt for her conspicuously absent lighter. After coming up empty-handed in her search, she grabs her phone off the seat and scrolls through the texts with great swipes of her thumb. One of those text alerts might belong to the only person capable of saying something new right now. After that, Detective Chloe Price has no choice but to solve the case of the missing Firewalk lighter._

Max C: Need some space? No problem :)  
09/01 9:34 am

Chloe P: NO EMOJI!!!  
09/01 4:13 pm

Chloe P: blaze it  
09/01 4:20 pm

 

 

* * *

> There's a hole in the sky and she falls through. 

Over twenty or so seconds the blurry mess starts to resolve into something recognizable. Voices drone in the aural backdrop but they have yet to be converted into actual language. Besides the sensation of the skull-splitting headache there's a comforting pressure on the back of her neck. She gingerly lifts her head a few inches from the table and winces at the sunlight filtering through the blinds. A new vision. Max drops her head back to the cool table, grateful to find the other side of the booth is unoccupied. This vision was borderline psychedelic with its abstract imagery and dream-like quality. There wasn't the implied danger of her original vision, either. Before delving deeper into the meaning of the vision it seems like a grand idea to rest for a spell.

Then she notices that someone's sitting next to her in the booth. Her heart skips a beat in the icy throes of fear. A half-remembered face, creased with worry, whispers words of what must be encouragement. Long before her eyes have finished adjusting Max deduces the identity of the other person solely from their bright blue feather earring. Now that the photography student is conscious again the other girl removes her hand from the back of Max's neck.

"Feeling better?" Rachel murmurs soothingly.

Those luminous hazel eyes pin Max in place and she can't seem to look anywhere else. Eyes wide and bottom lip trembling a tad, she gropes for an answer. "Uh, yes. Yes." She mouths the words before remembering to actually, you know, speak them out loud. There's a twinkle of amusement in the blonde girl's eyes. "I guess I must...I must have fainted. Awful hot today, isn't it..." Max stammers, painfully aware of the importance of making a good first impression. Sitting upright, she grabs the glass of water set in the middle of the table and sips on some ice cold water to prove her point.

Rachel chuckles. "That's actually mine. Max, you didn't want anything to drink, remember?" In her best imitation of a robot Max puts the glass back on the table in a series of jerky, mechanical movements. Clinging to the last shred of dignity she has left, she clears her throat. "Ah." Her eyes travel back down to the glass where she notices a smudge of lip gloss on its rim. That should have been her first clue; she doesn't wear lip gloss. Some color creeps into her cheeks as she becomes better acquainted with the meaning of the phrase, 'like a deer caught in headlights'. To her credit, an amused Rachel doesn't needle her further over the faux pas.

"As I was saying," continues Rachel, "It's nice to finally meet you, Max. I've heard a lot of stories about you. From Chloe, naturally." Max sucks in a breath and exhales through her nose. "It's nice to meet you..." Without missing a beat, Rachel sticks out her hand in greeting. "Rachel, Rachel Amber." Max shakes Rachel's hand. The lapse in conversation provides a chance to get lost in the hustle and bustle of the diner. There's the ominpresent smell of coffee, the clinking of silverware against ceramic plates, and some generic country music playing on the jukebox. If Chloe were here it'd definitely be playing an old rock tune instead.

"Thanks for being there for Chloe," Max blurts out. It's not what the other girl wanted to hear judging from the blink-and-you'll-miss-it crack in her smile. "Oh, it's my pleasure," Rachel says in a voice spiked with the faintest hint of aggravation. "Have you heard from her lately? I'm surprised she's not here to see you," Rachel adds, with a subtle twist of passive-aggression.

"Well, she sent me some cryptic texts about needing some space. Personal reasons, I guess."

Rachel blinks at that. "You know how Chloe gets. She's a free spirit at heart."

"Free is a good word for it," Max says with a shrug of her shoulders, "Free to do a lot of things."

Rachel, suitably rebuked, nods in agreement and goes quiet. When she speaks again it's less catty and more softspoken. "You're all she's talked about for months on end and I may be a little sensitive about that. We had a fight on Saturday so..." Rachel sighs and the sentence is left forever incomplete. Framed by the afternoon sun and lost in thought, it's a real struggle to not outright stare at the aspiring model. So why not capture the moment? Spotting her messenger bag next to her, Max sneaks a hand in then fishes around inside for some torturous seconds. Her fingertips brush against at least a half dozen photos before alighting on the angular contour of her camera.

_Gotcha._

Click. The sound of the camera shutter snaps Rachel out of her reverie. "Not so fast," Rachel grabs the photo with lightning-quick reflexes. "Let's check your work, my little paparazzi."

"Hey!" Max's voice squeaks in protest as she makes her own failed grab for it. Rachel waves the photo back and forth while it develops but she's careful to keep it out of Max's reach. The gleeful smirk plastered on Rachel's face is intolerable. "Say, this isn't half bad, Max. It has a certain je ne sais quois." Max, defeated, puts the camera on the table and slumps against the booth's cushion, making a game out of counting the marks and cracks on the ceiling.

_I didn't even get a chance to see if it's something I'm ready to share yet. I could rewind and prevent that from happening but what about the reverb budget? No, I just have to get used to sticking by my decisions like, like a regular person._

"I can tell you this much: you're going to get along just fine with Jefferson."

She freezes in place. Arrested by a fear that runs so profound she's been worried it'll never leave her fully. Going back and starting over meant confronting him again, she knew that from the first. But the idea that anyone could utter that name in combination with anything besides venomous hate provokes her to action. Now she claws her way back to a sitting position with the words leaping off her tongue before she can stop to think about what she's saying...let alone the volume. "I'll never get along with that monster! Stay away, stay far away from Jefferson!"

Rachel, startled by the violent reaction, flinches then blinks several times in quick succession. "Max? Are you okay?" Now it's Max's turn to blink. In her fit of rage she must have grabbed Rachel by the shoulders without realizing it. Her knuckles are bright red from the strain of keeping clamped down on Rachel's shoulders. Suddenly remembering herself, she lets go and whispers a breathless apology, "I'm so sorry, Rachel. Um. Sorry." Rachel peers at Max as if searching for something in particular, though if she finds it, she gives no indication. "You're not joking with me, you're serious."

Max licks her lips nervously, "I'm serious."

In the wake of her outburst the mood takes a turn for the worse. Max can tell she's withdrawing into herself in a bid to shut out the traumatic memories and the conversation suffers accordingly. Rachel traces lazy circles on the tabletop with her finger while working out how to get her new acquaintance talking again. "What'd he do?" The question is a fair one. The answer isn't. "Enough." One word given for three emotions.

Humiliation. Despair. Shame.

The conversation dies a quick death and the resulting silence goes undisturbed until the waitress (it's not Joyce today) sets a plate of food in front of each of them. "One belgian waffle and a bacon omelette. Enjoy your meal," The waitress speaks in a rehearsed monotone but switches to a more agreeable tone of voice after getting a good look at them. "You two make a cute couple."

Caught off guard by the unsolicited comment, Max fumbles for words as the waitress disappears back into the kitchen. She looks to Rachel for support but gets treachery instead. Armed with a fork and a wicked grin Rachel scoops up the first bite of omelette and pops it into her mouth. The villain even winks as she does it!

"That's mine!" Max whines. Chewing thoughtfully, Rachel blocks Max's subsequent lunge for some of her waffle. The blonde swallows her mouthful of stolen egg and bacon goodness with a sigh of contentment. "Don't fret, babe, lunch is my treat."

There's a distressing emphasis on the word 'babe'.

"I'd never make my girlfriend pay for any of her meals, duh." Max groans at this but offers no resistance. There's no point. Rachel always seems to be one step ahead of her with the exception of the outburst when Jefferson was mentioned. No reason to give Rachel another opportunity to torment her. Speaking of which, Chloe failed to mention Rachel's sadistic streak. That would have been a handy thing to know.

Almost as if she could tell who was on Max's mind, Rachel speaks up. "Chloe's gone missing since our fight." It's stated in a manner that's so matter-of-fact that you'd be forgiven for thinking she was talking about a pet. "I haven't heard from her since, actually." Max opens her mouth to comment but thinks better of it.

"With your help, though, I'm confident we'll find her."

Whether or not Max is willing to help doesn't appear to be up for discussion. So like it or not, she's conscripted into service without a full understanding of what just happened. What's really strange is that the thought to refuse Rachel never enters her head.


	2. Tabula Rasa

**Chapter Two, Tabula Rasa**

Her fingers curl around the neck of the guitar then slide into fret position. The guitar pick hovers restlessly above the strings. She taps a foot in time to the beat of a phantom drum. Pick meets string and the tentative first notes come to life. Soon she's strumming through the opening chords but has to repeat them a couple times before she's able to screw up the courage to actually sing.

But her lips do eventually part:

“I am thinking it's a sign  
That the freckles in our eyes  
Are mirror images  
And when we kiss they're perfectly aligned”

From the start Max's voice is unsure but the familiar melody soothes her nerves and a twist of subtle emotion finds its way into the words. She had thought her choice in song to be random but the personal meaning apparent in the lyrics is undeniable.

“And I have to speculate  
That God Himself did make  
Us into corresponding shapes  
Like puzzle pieces from the clay”

The original plan was to play a few verses and maybe lend her voice to one or two but the draw of catharsis overpowers her inhibitions. The regularly scheduled programming of scathing self-awareness is superseded by her need for emotional release. So she spends herself on the words without knowing how or why. It feels right.

“And true it may seem like a stretch  
But it's thoughts like this that catch  
My troubled head when you're away  
And when I am missing you to death”

Ghosts play tag in her head while she sings. They periodically stop to snap into poses, rigid and motionless, acting out scenes from a story she can't tell anyone anymore. Heartfelt conversations with friends. A lone silhouette standing atop Blackwell's roof. Tender moments shared with Chloe. Two figures digging in the junkyard with their bare hands. All of it is left behind in another time but the same place. Paradoxically within immediate reach and yet a million miles away.

“And when you are out there on the road  
For several weeks of shows  
And when you scan the radio  
I hope this song will guide you home”

For the past year a constant pressure has made its home in her chest, nestled right over her heart, and the weight of the thing takes her breath away whenever she brushes against those memories. The hope that she'd have the chance to make things right had sustained her through a year of living with a punk rocker-shaped hole in her life. But now Chloe has skipped town and it has to wait. Max is alone with memories for company and longing for a friend. To think that Chloe must have felt like this constantly during the five year lapse in contact. It's just another reminder of how shitty it was to put her through that. Because she didn't have enough of those reminders yet.

“They will see us waving from such great heights  
Come down now, they'll say  
But everything looks perfect from far away  
Come down now, but we'll stay”

With the last of the music fading, room 222 is left in a comfortable quiet. A complex interplay of emotions flits across Kate's face while the audience of one processes the performance. It's a rarity, then, that Kate does not smile. “That was...”

Max gingerly sets the guitar on the couch cushion next to her while her classmate-to-be gropes for words. The window by the desk reveals that the outside world has fallen under the sway of night once more. An evening breeze wends its way across campus, rustling tree branches and carrying voices from both dormitories as it goes. If only every long day could conclude on such a tranquil note.

“Not sure if this is the right word for it but that was kinda profound,” Kate absentmindedly tugs on her crucifix necklace in the midst of the ongoing struggle to articulate. “It was beautiful – no doubt about it but you were singing for someone. Um. Singing to me, yes, but singing for someone else. Does that make any sense?”

Kate's gaze drops to the floor as a small, wistful smile creeps onto her face.

“Someday I hope someone makes me feel that much.”

Otherwise enjoying a nice post-guitar session afterglow, Max flinches mightily at the comment but if she notices Kate doesn't show it. Desperate to change the subject, she says the first thing that comes to mind on seeing Kate's violin case leaning against the desk.

“Do you play?” Max asks.

“No, it's just a great conversation piece. Of course I play! Don't you remember us chatting about our respective weapons of choice at the diner?”

_Oh, yeah. That was a thing. It definitely happened just like it definitely slipped my mind. Was it before or after I blacked out from the vision and why can't I seem to keep track?_

Kate sticks out her tongue playfully at Max, “I'd offer to play something for you but I don't want to keep people up the night before classes start. We'll all have enough trouble getting to sleep as it is.”

This is Kate Marsh as she was always meant to be. Future children's book illustrator, virtuoso of the violin, and a role model in mindfulness for the sake of others. Makes it truly hard to believe that it went so wrong for her the last time around.

_Welcome back, Kate, welcome back._

Max is quick, maybe too quick, to reply. “I'll hold you to that! We wouldn't want to bring the wrath of Victoria down upon you so early into the semester.”

Kate casually kicks her legs over the side of the bed and resumes looking out the window with her eyebrows knitted together in concentration. “You might be better with names than I am but I think I know who you're talking about. Short blonde hair? Looks like money? I sat with her at the diner when everyone was getting to know each other. I caught her staring at me a couple of times. Not sure what that's about.”

After some fidgeting Kate hops off the bed and steps over to the window next to the desk. She probably did it with the express intention of shutting the window but ends up leaning on the windowsill instead.

“Are you okay?” Max inquires after her.

“Mhm,” With the aid of Kate's gentle touch the window slides shut without a sound. “I just didn't expect to make a friend on my first day. That's all.”

Everything about the following moment is, in a word, perfect. From her slow spin away from the window with a nervous-but-hopeful look on her face to the way she has her hands clasped behind her back because she's not sure what else to do with them. It begs to be recorded for posterity. Max fishes around in her messenger bag and retrieves her camera in record time. After all, it's not like the world can ever have enough photos of a radiant Kate Marsh.

Click.

“Max!” Kate yelps.

Max, grinning like a loon, offers no remorse. “Sorry not sorry. We photography students have to get our practice in somewhere.”

Upon deeming the photograph worthy it's dropped into the hungry maw of her messenger bag so it can be with the rest of its kind. Meanwhile Kate has taken to restlessly pacing back and forth in the middle of the room. She places each foot in front of the other, toe-to-heel. With her head tilted down to better watch her footing it causes loose strands of blonde hair to bounce and jostle as she goes around in circles.

“Can you believe we're meeting Mark Jefferson tomorrow? The Mark Jefferson! I have butterflies in my stomach just thinking about it.”

Max flicks a guitar string and lets the sharp twang of its reverberations serve as her wordless protest to hearing his name. She can already feel the bile in the back of her throat as the revulsion takes hold. There's a definite desire to speak up and say something but it would sour the mood further and only lead to a lot of questions. Questions with ugly answers. Now isn't the time for it but maybe later.

“I'm gonna turn in for the night, Kate. See you tomorrow.” She has to clip her words to prevent the bitterness from leaking out which makes her sound a little monotone but certainly beats the alternative.

Kate is visibly disappointed by this turn of events but manages a small nod. “Big day tomorrow, you're right. Sleep sweet, Max.”

_It has been a seriously long day. Time for some well-deserved shuteye after that debacle at the Two Whales. At least Joyce wasn't there to witness it, I guess._

The journey back to her room is a short one. Thoroughly exhausted by the day's events, Max staggers inside and shrugs out of her grey hoodie. She limply tosses the hoodie on the back of the chair by her desk then takes her shirt off. The Jane Doe shirt gets deposited onto the couch (otherwise known as the comfiest shelf in the room) and grabs her pajamas. Upon closer inspection said pajamas have become home to countless wrinkles and laundry day subsequently climbs several notches on her list of priorities. Wrinkles in her clothing is a no-go, right up there with an unmade bed when it comes to her major pet peeves. Still, she's deeply grateful that no one else will witness her wearing them.

There's a chuckle. Her heart stops.

Standing stock-still, Max swivels her head towards the source of the mirth. To her right is the prone form of Rachel on her bed and illuminated by the rays of a phone screen. Rachel doesn't even do her the courtesy of looking up from her texting session. Her only acknowledgment of Max's presence is the slow shift from a blank expression to a pleased one, a change that is all the more conspicuous thanks to the steady glow from her phone.

“Uhh, Rachel...this is my room...”

"The other girls were getting on my nerves so I hid in here for some alone time. I knew you wouldn't mind."

The worst part is that Rachel is right: she doesn't mind. And Max hates that she doesn't mind. She can't even begin to understand why that is. Rachel glances up from her phone to make momentary eye contact with Max, as if to illustrate the point that she's well aware of her talent for reading people.

“Have you heard from our blue jay, Max? Oh, cute bra.”

Her arms reflexively snap over her chest and she stammers but words won't come out. Rachel sits up on the bed, her bed, appearing comfortable in a pair of snug yoga pants and wearing a tight eggshell blue graphic tee that reads 'Die for Disco' in a canary yellow font that's straight out of the '70s.

“Of course you have. Forget it, it doesn't matter.” It sure sounds like it matters. “Word is that there's a Forks concert tomorrow night and I'd bet money that Chloe will be there. We're going.”

It's less of an invitation and more of a declaration, a bemused Max notes. Scooting to the edge of the bed, Rachel stands up a scant foot from Max and proceeds to nudge past Max to the door. “We'll need to figure out transportation. But get some sleep for now. We have a big day tomorrow.”

Rachel opens the door wide but pauses at the threshold. She sizes Max up with a look that sweeps her from head to toe. Then she's gone. With her sudden exit, Rachel's absence leaves Max properly alone. She looks down at the pajamas bunched together in her hands. The crumpled pajamas get chucked back on the couch. She kicks off her sneakers, shimmies out of her jeans, and then crawls under the blankets. They're still warm to the touch. Max shivers.

 

 

* * *

_Reminiscing alone seldom makes for a good time. Nostalgia is wont to lead lost lambs into the greener pastures of yesteryear. This retreat into the imagined glories of the past comes at the tidy price of the here-and-now which is its own kind of death. Heedless of this danger Chloe finds herself at the American Drive-In Theater about sixty miles out from Arcadia Bay. Broken thoughts crash into each other in a stream of consciousness that scours away what remains of her goodwill. Rachel had a habit of disappearing. Small gaps in her whereabouts that went unaccounted for. Chloe, in her naivete, would simply justify them with flimsy rationalizations. Wasn't until later that she discovered those gaps had names like Frank and Hayden._

_“Shakes? Me too.”_

_Even the dulcet tones of a young Harrison Ford can't lift her spirits on a night like this. Over time Rachel grew more brazen with her indiscretions. She became so confident in her lies and misdirection that she must have believed that she could keep it going forever. The truth was waiting for her on the other girl's phone. A dare over who could drink who under the table did the trick. It took a bottle of cheap vodka for Chloe to make it through the stash of compromising photos. In the end Rachel's downfall was underestimating the single-minded obsession of a girl so deep in love that it gave her the fucking will to live._

_“What?”_

_For a while after she let it slide, let it go on. Although the knowledge that Rachel had other lovers was demeaning she didn't utter a word because in some truly twisted way it was bearable as long as there was still some love left over for her. Then came the day when that was gone too._

_“I get 'em bad. It's part of the business.”_

_It took Max breaking her four year long silence to salvage things. Some competition for Chloe's attention was enough to bring Rachel back around. If nothing else it got her to use the good words again like 'we' and 'us' and 'our'. Maybe they would have been fine or maybe Rachel would need another reminder down the road not to take things for granted. Regardless, Max had inadvertently solved the problem in what could be called the overtures of her comeback. Life was returning to normal when she noticed Frank wearing Rachel's bracelet during a routine supply run. Cue the vengeful return of the bitter memories. And the rest is history._

_Chloe leans forward, eyes fixed on Sean Young, and mouths the words before the actress says them._

_“I'm not in the business. I am the business.”_

_It takes a second for the tickling sensation on her cheeks to register as tears. She picks her phone up off the passenger seat and scrolls through her contact list with great swipes of her finger._

Chloe P: i know this isnt fair of me but  
09/02 10:48 pm

Chloe P: i need a friend right now  
09/02 10:48 pm

Max C: I'm not posting your bail  
09/02 10:53 am

Max C: but I'm here for you ;)  
09/02 10:53 am

Chloe P: sorry shoulda come see you  
09/02 10:54 pm

Max C: I made you wait for four years  
09/02 10:54 am

Max C: Chloe, I can wait another day.  
09/02 10:54 am

Chloe P: don't ever leave again. please.  
09/02 10:56 pm

Chloe P: also I want to learn origami  
09/02 10:56 pm

 

 

 

* * *

_Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?_

Reflected in the bathroom mirror is a bleary-eyed hipster investigating her appearance with mounting disapproval. Max's likely disqualifications from being fairest of them all include: dark circles under her eyes, the snarled mess that is her hair today, and, of course, the fact that her bra strap is showing and she only now is discovering this. That last one would explain the peculiar looks throughout photography class, actually. After a certain punk chick saw to it that she stayed up past her bedtime it was inevitable that she'd have to cut some corners in her morning routine. Under the bathroom's harsh fluorescent lighting it's plain to see which ones got cut in order to make it to class on time.

Speaking of which, it was textbook surreal to be back in the photography classroom with everyone. Familiar faces and familiar hearts that were oblivious to the ugly truth that today is nothing more than a rerun. At the center of it was Mark Jefferson, swanning about and stretching his 'cool uncle' persona to its absolute limits in a bid to win over his students. The tension had been nigh insufferable while she waited for some shapeless catastrophe to make itself known to her. Whether it was a veiled reference to the Dark Room or something else untoward she swore that she'd take notice. She was left to float along the surface of a vast sense of detachment while a murderer offered advice on good photo composition.

She turns the faucet on and splashes some cold water onto her face. The bathroom door abruptly swings wide open and Victoria breezes in with her cashmere and that 'take no prisoners' attitude. She raises an eyebrow at Max in passing and is soon busy pawing through her purse in search of something that's doing a bang-up job of eluding her clutches. Even in the washed-out glare of the fluorescent lights Victoria is prim and perfect with nary a blemish or wrinkle to be seen on her person.

_There's our runner-up for fairest of them all. Tell me, how's the weather in Rachel's shadow?_

Max chides herself for being bitchy and splashes more water on her face in another fruitless attempt to appear presentable. Victoria meanwhile occupies the next sink over and is leaning against said sink as she reapplies her eyeliner with zen-like focus. Every now and again she steals a glance at Max but says nothing. The movements of her brush are so uniform and meticulous that it's difficult to not be a little captivated by her expertise in applying makeup. Once she's pleased with her eyeliner she places it back in her purse with care and shoulders the strap, evidently about to depart. That's when her sight catches on Max like a Balenciaga caught in a revolving door.

Dismay and apathy vie for dominance as her lips press into a thin bloodless line while she decides between a sneer or a scowl. “I can't,” Victoria says in a voice strangled by frustration, “I just can't. It's just fuel for the fire.”

Mystified by whatever the hell is going on Max stands up straight, opens her mouth to respond, and watches in the mirror's reflection as Victoria strides behind her. Then Victoria reaches out...

...to slide the offending bra strap back to its rightful place beneath her tank top.

“Taylor and Courtney were making fun of you in class. That's how they are: they just love to pick away at people to feel superior. The trick is to not make yourself an easy target.” Her hands come to rest on Max's shoulders as the diatribe continues. Their eyes meet in the mirror.

“Believe me, you don't want the school talking about you behind your back and they're the ones to get that kind of thing started.” It's a lot to take in at once. Taylor and Courtney aren't Victoria's minions in this version of Arcadia Bay? From the sounds of it she's actually the one that's being bullied this time around. What a novel concept.

Seizing a gap in the Victoria's breathless exhortation, Max speaks up, “It's okay Victoria. There are always going to be people like that no matter what you do. I'd rather go about my business than change myself for the sake of maybe escaping their judgment. Petty is as petty does.”

Apparently not a believer in seeking permission Victoria lifts her hands up to Max's head and runs her fingers through the shutterbug's hair as she considers these words. Her dark burgundy nails rake through the tangle of chocolate brown hair with purpose. Although the sensation teeters between painful and pleasant, bit by bit the unruly hair is tamed. Lost in thought for the moment, Victoria's words come out sharp and clear despite it.

“What's your name?”

“I said in class that...”

“I wasn't listening then. Now I am,” Victoria remarks.

“It's Max Caulfield.”

The self-appointed pariah of Blackwell delves back into her purse and comes up with a tube of peach concealer. She squeezes some onto her ring finger and then sets to work dabbing it under Max's eyes. “You can use a peach or orange-colored concealer just make sure to be gentle. Your choice in color for your concealer is critical to getting that natural look.”

“I'm not really one for makeup.” Max points out.

The resulting stare from Victoria says more than words ever could on how obvious this news must be. She shoulders the purse strap once more and then runs her fingers through Max's hair one last time for good measure. Evidently satisfied with her handiwork her lips curl into something that almost qualifies as a smile. Max, surprising even herself, pipes up. “Thank you. This morning was disasterrific.”

Victoria snorts, further proof of her knack for being abrasive without requiring the luxury of words. She heads to the bathroom door and she raises a hand in lazy farewell, “Ciao, Caulfield. I'll let you know if I hear any nasty rumors about you.” The bathroom door opens up with a flat-palmed shove from Victoria.

“I love your nail polish!” Max shouts it into the slice of hallway visible before the door shuts completely. A quick check in the mirror confirms that Victoria knows her stuff: the dark circles under her eyes are a thing of the past. Bewildered but impressed by the encounter, Max idly wonders if being enemies with Victoria is the exception and not the rule across timelines.

Rachel A: A thought occurs.  
09/03 11:31 am

Rachel A: I know where we can find a ride.  
09/03 11:31 am

Rachel A: Boy's dorm and bring a winning smile.  
09/03 11:32 am

Rachel A: Cuz this might take some convincing.  
09/03 11:32 am 

 

 

 

* * *

“Nathan Prescott is your idea for a ride. Really?”

Rachel purses her lips thoughtfully, “I plead the fifth.”

Max fumes as the two loiter outside the Prescott Boys Dormitory entrance in broad daylight. An impish grin tugs at the corners of Rachel's mouth as she basks in the disapproval. This is a girl that loves to rile people up just to get a good reaction out of them. She couldn't possibly know what her suggestion entails, and that's not her fault, but it doesn't make the idea any easier to swallow. Perhaps the situation calls for a different tack.

“I don't know him personally but from what I've heard he's not the friendliest person in the world.”

It's something of an understatement.

“That depends on who you're speaking to, my little paparazzi. I invite you to draw your own conclusions but please save it for once you've become better acquainted. Give him a fair shake, that's all I ask.”

Max spools out a world-weary sigh. She has a front row seat to the slow trickle of male students filtering out of the dorm building for their afternoon classes. Their reactions to the two ladies chatting on their doorstep runs the gamut from bored greetings to the would-be unsolicited remarks that wither and die on their lips beneath Rachel's steely gaze. But neither hide nor hair of Nathan Prescott.

“If you say so. On the topic of paparazzi, can I get my photo back?” Max diplomatically inquires.

Rachel relaxes against the railing and bites her lip in mock concentration, “I dunno, I kinda like it.” There's a hopeful pause that winds down into a flash of her pearly whites. “Let me get back to you on that one.”

She counts out how many steps it would take for the sprinklers to 'just so happen' to spray Rachel before concluding on the note that it'd be a flagrant, albeit delightful, misuse of her rewind. Max has to settle for asking the million dollar question instead, “Okay then, what's the plan?”

“We'll get to that. First, can we talk about that tank top? It's glorious. And what's this, makeup? Max! You didn't strike me as the kind of girl that does makeup!” Eyes aglow, the prospective model slings the words at a breakneck pace.

Feeling a tad self-conscious, Max stretches the bottom of the tank top then peeks down to get a good look at the navy blue fabric emblazoned with a stylized motif of a lighthouse alone in the night. Not seeing what the fuss is about she mutters her defense, “I, I don't makeup, it's, well, I was in the bathroom and Victoria showed up.”

“Focus, my dear: the tank top, where did you get it?”

“I picked it up when I was living in Seattle. Wait, don't you tell me to focus! You're the one that keeps changing the subject!”

Rachel tilts her head forward and shields her lips from sight with her hand, as if she's about to share a dirty secret. Her voice plunges into a conspiratorial whisper, “No idea what you're going on about but Victoria is a bad apple if you ask me.”

Max stares back in defiance, her baby blues simmering with mild annoyance.

“I didn't ask. And weren't you the one that told me that I should give Nathan a chance?”

Rachel responds in kind with a stare of her own. Then her face cracks and she breaks into a laughing fit. Those peals of laughter recede into hearty chuckles while Rachel does her best to speak around them. “All right, you're too much fun when you get worked up.”

“Are we going in? Yeah, c'mon, we're going in.” Having had her fill of being Rachel's plaything, she latches onto the other girl's arm and drags her inside the dorm. She marches down the hallway with Rachel in tow, plowing past the stragglers heading out to their classes.

“A girl could get used to this, so forceful.” Rachel purrs.

It's a cheap attempt to rattle her further so Max outright ignores it. Room 111 comes up, its position relative to the rest of the rooms firmly fixed in her mind. It was a trove of disturbing secrets in another time so it's understandable that she feels a knot in her stomach forming on approach. The whiteboard outside Nathan's room reads: “We're a captive audience so won't you make me laugh?”

Something about it makes her feel uneasy although there's nothing overtly sinister about the message. She goes to knock on the door but hesitates. Her fist hangs in the air a few inches away from the door, trembling ever-so-subtly. Rachel's hand grips her shoulder but Max, unwilling to give up her anger, violently shrugs it off before loudly rapping her knuckles against the door.

A recognizable voice that's partially amused and generally aggravated comes from inside the room. “I swear to god Hayden, we've been over this. I'm not lending you my bong until you learn how to clean up after yourself.”

The handle jiggles, turns, and then the lock disengages with an audible click. On hearing said click Max realizes that she has stormed down here without even an inkling of a plan, no thanks to Rachel's antics. Nathan picks this very awkward moment to rip the door open with a grunt and then instantly spots the brunette waiting outside of his room. His expression morphs from halfhearted rage to authentic surprise.

“Who are you?” He blinks after speaking as if he might be seeing things. “Don't answer that. Girls dorm is on the other side of the building, get the fuck outta here.”

_Oh, you did not!_

“Not going anywhere, thanks. I need a ride to the concert tonight and a mutual friend told me you have your own truck.” Max manages to impress herself with the sheer vehemence packed into her mousy voice.

Nathan balks at this, “Look, I don't know what your problem is but you're insane if you think you can stroll in here and ask a Prescott to be your personal chauffeur. This conversation is over.”

He starts to push the door closed but Max throws herself against it to keep it open. The impact jostles the door with enough force to send Nathan stumbling back a half-step. His eyes go wide at the impropriety of being out-muscled by a girl, even temporarily.

“This isn't up for discussion!” He barks as he lunges for the door.

Max braces her shoulder against the door, “I beg to differ!”

A hand interposes between the two and comes to rest on the door frame. And so the feud between the Caulfield and Prescott lines is forgotten for a spell. Rachel strolls up next to Max with a courtly air about her. “Nice job,” she murmurs and pairs it with a significant look as she steps through into the room.

“Rachel?” A note of disbelief shudders as he speaks her name.

“In the flesh, Caliban. There's a Forks concert tonight and it's been a hella while since I've had the chance to rage. Let's fix that, shall we?” Rachel takes measured steps around him in a way that brings to mind how a lioness might circle her prey.

Nathan's demeanor transforms on seeing Rachel. Gone is his aggressive posturing and the animosity gives way to the closest thing to submission that a Prescott can manage. None of which prevents him from giving Max the dirtiest of looks and mouthing 'dirty pool' at her.

“This here is Max. She's a disciple of my teachings. An upstart, if you will. Rambunctious and eager to get her first taste of moshing. Isn't that right?”

It's a question that paves the road to infamy. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Or it could have been the misguided desire to impress Rachel. Either way, the words leave her mouth without a second thought. Muscle memory kicks in and she extends her pinkie and thumb while tucking the other three fingers into her palm.

“Ready for the mosh pit, shaka brah.”

Three seconds. It takes three seconds as delicate as glass before it dawns on her. Her pupils turn into pinpricks. A primordial horror smothers her ability to convey language. Max sputters. Every ounce of intimidation and respect she had instilled into Nathan vanishes. The tips of her ears burn from the rising tide of soul-wrenching embarrassment.

_Kill me now._

Rachel's eyes bulge a little as she bursts into a guffaw. Nathan's jaw goes slack in amazement. He tilts his head, incredulous and rendered mute by the absurdity. His mouth works though he can't quite decide on what combination of obscenities to use. Rachel is doubled over now, her laughs coming in painful spasms as tears stream down her cheeks.

_Please let me die._

“Last name?” Nathan placidly queries amid Rachel's howling laughter.

Max's teeth are clenched so tight that she can grind out but one syllable at a time. “Caul. Field.”

“Caulfield.” He repeats, testing how it plays on his tongue.

“How can you...” Rachel wheezes, “...How can you turn us down after that?”

He can't.

 

* * *

 

> There's a hole in the sky and she falls through.

“GC, must we?”

A voice speaks out in a snippet of a larger conversation, The voice is her own. She knows with an unshakable certainty that the name is her own too. During the climb back to the waking world she intones the name a thousand times. There is a meaning to be gleaned from this but it skitters further and further away whenever she chases it. By the time she reaches what she fancies to be the thousandth step in this nonexistent stairwell, it has integrated into her identity. So she says the full name in the voice, also her own, as she knows it to be.

“GC Max.”

Then's she back in her favorite cocoon and wrapped many times over in blankets. Thankfully while the blankets carry a residual warmth she can tell it's not from someone else. That said, there's a particular scent that wafts on the air. It's sweet and earthy with notes of...tobacco. Max sniffs experimentally and any trace of doubt disappears: Chloe was here. No new messages on her phone, though. Getting out of bed she drops onto the couch and surveys the room around her. It's incredible to think that she has made it this far, gone to these lengths to create a new timeline out of the deep-seated need to see her best friend. They may be ships passing in the night for now but sooner or later the lighthouse on shore has to see them together at last.

It's just a matter of time.


	3. In the Face of Change

**Chapter Three, In the Face of Change**

Rachel Amber is a girl waiting for the world to fall. It's nothing personal, though. As a matter of fact, she remains unaware of the exact nature of this long-held wish. She fills her days with hedonistic excess to stave off the doldrums of day-to-day living, an undertaking that has fostered the not-entirely-inaccurate belief that she's addicted to the pursuit of novel sensations. Her lifestyle is one that offers scant opportunity for self-reflection that's free from the buzz of alcohol or the numbing embrace of THC. Whereas regular people move through life with an individualized skill set applied in service of well-defined goals, Rachel, with her embarrassment of riches in the talent department, drifts along rudderless and waiting. Waiting for some greater purpose to give her direction while the vindictive part of her desperately longs for the world to split and crack open like a fresh egg, spilling rivers of magma and pulverized cross sections of cities into the wider cosmos.

A girl that's waiting for the world to fall has got to keep busy seeing as it could be quite the wait, so today finds her wandering up and down the dormitory hall. She passes the time by reading each and every whiteboard slate message and then judging the room's resident accordingly. Most of the slates can be divided into two categories: staid platitudes and rote pop culture 'insights'. A sorry display of the collective intellect of the girl's dorm, to be sure. Among the rabble and written in a looping, unhurried hand one slate reads: "Lok'tar Ogar!" This is the only message that Rachel actually has to look up on her phone and on doing so gets her to chuckle. See, in recent days she has come into possession of one Maxine Caulfield, a plucky photography student with a stack of social quirks taller than the girl herself. Once a sore point of contention with significant other Chloe Price, Max has become a wellspring of amusement. Beneath that meek exterior is a girl trying to find her place in the world and in dire need of a guide on the trip to get there. Enter stage left Rachel Amber, an old hand at debauchery and an exceptional catalyst for human nature.

In a separate timeline (she's remains blissfully oblivious to these things) Rachel's killer described her as a 'human chameleon' in a turn of phrase that confirmed this much: that a picture is worth a thousand words and Mark Jefferson should be glad he stuck to photography. The assumption that her mercurial nature is the actual fabric of her personality as opposed to being a byproduct of personal philosophy is the reason why this wholesale approach to comprehending Rachel routinely fails. It's a great relief, then, that Max has yet to make serious inroads into what makes Rachel tick. It must have crossed her mind before but she's bright enough to not give a voice to her curiosities.

Tonight is a great opportunity for the two of them to get know each other better. No pretension, no preconceived notions, just the punk rock stylings of The Forks and a crowd of hormone-fueled teenagers without parental supervision. In other words, it'll be a thrilling environment that comes with access to an ample supply of watered-down beer. And if there's anything that could help Max Caulfield survive the scrutiny of her peers when she debuts at her first extracurricular Blackwell event it would be the magic of alcohol, or so Rachel suspects. Chloe is sure to be there too. In a perfect world she'd have some inkling of what to do when she meets back up with Chloe again after several days of radio silence but this is not, nor has it ever shown the signs of being, a perfect world.

So Rachel leans against the wall next to room 217 and tries to think about anything else.

She instead wiles away the time by trying to predict what Max will be wearing when she's done. The mission was simple: pick out something to wear to the concert from Rachel's own extensive wardrobe. The question becomes: what form will Max's outfit take? A demure ensemble that will be just so much background noise in the crush of the mosh pit? Maybe there'll be some bare skin in a misguided attempt to stand out? There's nothing quite like a girl with something to prove, after all. Her own outfit eschews the traditional trappings of punk rock to play around with contrast. A skin-tight white tank top that highlights her midsection is paired with some ripped black leggings. Over the tank top is a crop top that's black at the bottom but gradually morphs into a murder of crows described entirely by the negative space of a white sky at its top. On her feet are some steel-toe leather sneakers in a classic black-and-white scheme. The last mainstays of her typical concert outfit are the fingerless black gloves and having her hair swept up into a tidy ponytail at the back of her head. To try something new she's using a length of simple white ribbon in place of a heavy duty choker or studded collar. It's a more subdued look but it has the supreme benefit of being comfortable to wear.

Phone in hand and with plenty of time to kill, she browses her messages. So many text notifications. Chloe is not among them; a token act of resistance. Deep down Rachel knows that she should feel something holy, like entrenched anger or ripe sorrow, but ambivalence proves their better. This is significant for reasons that continue to escape her. The door across from her starts to open as if on cue, a fitting visual metaphor that also goes unnoticed.

"Don't laugh." implores Max from somewhere inside the room.

The door to room 224 swings open in a dramatic reveal. Hunched in the doorway is Max but she has become a concertgoer with the kind of visual flair that would have a studio audience of any two-bit makeover show on its feet in a heartbeat. Having swapped out the rigid denim of her jeans for some trim black pleather pants it confirms that there were some actual honest-to-goodness legs under there the entire time. Above it she wears an oversized off the shoulder tee in an iris-scorching shade of hot pink that has 'Love is my El Dorado' written on the front in big shimmering golden letters. She has opted for some Doc Marten boots done in a playing card scheme that look ideal for kicking the ass of anyone that gets grabby in the mosh pit. The other trappings are equally delightful and incongruous: a braided leather wristband, a touch of blush on her cheeks, some minimal black eyeliner, and the tried and true bedhead hair. The crowning achievement is Max wearing the Sid Vicious-style padlock chain necklace that someone had given to Rachel as a gag gift.

The color scheme is black and white. And it's gold, and black again, and then it's pink, and it's so pink that staring at it could make people forget that there are other colors in the world. The outfit doesn't match and the presentation's all over the place but the fact that this is the conclusion that Max arrived at, that this is her answer to the question of 'what do I wear tonight?' absolves of her any culpability. On any other human being it would be a trainwreck. Somehow, though, it works. It's flirtatious and bold, being so far outside of the shutterbug's comfort zone that it cinches it as an utterly transformative work of art in the eyes of Rachel.

_It's going to be a strange and wonderful night._

Words fail. Her hand shoots out to grab Max's and she starts to lead the other girl down the hall towards the exit with a renewed sense of purpose. The grip is tentative at first blush but shifts to a firm grasp when Max allows herself be led onward. Emboldened by this, Rachel squeezes her hand.

"Come, come. The world needs to see you Max."

There's real conviction in Rachel's words. They're underpinned by the severe impression that the stars have aligned, and, therefore something important must be happening today. On no regular ordinary day does Max-frickin'-Caulfield emerge from Rachel Amber's room looking like a newly-minted Sex Pistols groupie.

"I'm not sure I'd put it like that," Max adds, a touch sheepish.

"I would. I really, really would."

 

* * *

Brassy jazz floats out of the radio, gets caught in the slipstream from a semi and is ripped out onto the highway. In the land of headlights, mile markers, and generous speed limits, one thing is certain and that is the absolute knowledge that this place is where turn signals go to die. Nathan nudges the wheel to the left with a forefinger as he blows past a coup with out of state plates. There are plenty of good and reasonable places for his eyes to land but his gaze bucks the trend of the passé speedometer or vehicle-choked road to instead land on Rachel. Maybe a small part of his mind hopes that she won't notice how he keeps drifting into the left lane as an excuse to glance to the right, and thus in her direction. To the casual observer it would appear that he's gauging whether or not he has the room to leave the next car over in the dust. Definitely not that it's just to gawk at one of his passengers. But she's no casual observer and notices this right off the bat. She thwarts his efforts by keeping her face turned toward the window to watch the landscape roll by.

Sandwiched between them is Max, who's doing her best impression of undergoing rigor mortis. She stares straight ahead, stiff as board, and makes no attempt at conversation. It doesn't come as a surprise that Rachel is the one to break the ice.

"Ever been to a concert before Max? A proper one."

"Once upon a time I went to a concert with my parents. It was, well, it was a country concert and that's very much not my crowd."

Max must have remembered who she's sitting next to because she clams up after speaking. It's high time to lure the introvert into opening up a little so Rachel decides to take another crack at it.

"That's fair. What sort of music do you like then?"

As she speaks she rolls the window down and sticks her arm out into the night air to savor the sensation of the wind rushing over it. Nathan obligingly turns down the volume on the radio. Max in turn starts nervously toying with her leather wristband.

"Indie."

Nathan interjects, "Of course. Of course you'd say indie."

"And of course you'd say that. Can't have me liking something that doesn't agree with your tastes." Max retorts, swiveling to address Rachel directly, "I like quiet, soulful songs that say a lot with a little. I don't like too much noise in my music because it gets loud enough in my head as it is."

Rachel nods in approval at this while Nathan just grunts. Then he opens his mouth to say something when the aspiring model interrupts him, "Keep it steady there, Caliban."

His mouth snaps shut and his eyes return to the road.

"If you don't mind my asking, why does she call you Caliban?" Max asks.

"We are, no, were," he corrects himself, "in drama class together. A certain someone dropped out of the class so that she could spend more time with an actual dropout." Nathan smiles a bit at his own wordplay.

"Technically speaking, Chloe was expelled. She didn't drop out." Rachel cheerfully points out.

Max chimes in, "That doesn't explain the nickname either."

"The Tempest by Shakespeare. Read a book Caulfield, goddamn." Nathan says, while probably regretting having turned the radio down.

"What was Chloe like back then?"

It's a question that was in some way inevitable. Just like that, the other two are immediately put on edge by Max's inquiry.

"Disaster on legs," says Nathan.

"A wildfire," says Rachel.

They share a significant look that deepens Max's puzzlement. Rachel just repeats herself with an odd lopsided grin, "A wildfire."

 

* * *

_The lights dim in the venue. The last scraps of idle chit-chat and vacuous conversation are forfeit as the lights go down, ushering in a hushed silence. Five figures saunter onto the stage, most of them with instruments in tow and the odd one out with a pair of drumsticks clutched tight. There's a thrum of a bass guitar in the dark. Then comes an uptempo beat courtesy of the snare drum. A spotlight flips on to show the band members at the ready. The lead singer marches toward the mic stand and grabs it in one hand, tipping it towards her lips. Her dark eyes smolder as she scans the crowd, her light breathing scratchy coming through the speakers._

_"This one is...A Victimless Crime Called Love."_

_The crowd roars the song name back in thunderous reply and at once Chloe Price feels back in her element. The percussion from the drums crashes in her chest like a second heartbeat as the audience screams the lyrics with encouragement from the band. In the cacophony there's no room for organized thought or dialectics. Can a heart really be broken if it carries on to the rhythm of counter-culture? With a cheap beer in hand and the apocalyptic volume of the deafening music Chloe feels, however fleetingly, like a functional human being. This she can do. She shoves her way into the mosh pit wearing The Fork's lyrics on her lips as a battlecry when a hand violently shoves her shoulder and she spins around to meet the asshole with a snarl only to find, to her sudden delight, that a concertgoer is crowd surfing towards the front stage. Hollering at the top of her lungs, she latches onto the crowd surfer's ankle and drags her hapless prey down to the dance floor._

_The crowd surfer's foot catches her square on the cheek on the way down and sends Chloe tumbling into the tangle of bodies around them. Her choice obscenity is swallowed up in the music's sheer noise. Never one to back down from a good tussle, she throws herself at the poor bastard that nailed her in the jaw. They never see the sucker punch coming, nor do they hear her mocking laughter as they double over with the wind knocked out of them. She cups her hands around her mouth for the best chance at having them hear her follow-up._

_"You don't wear hot pink to a punk concert, ASSHOLE!"_

_Three seconds later comes swift regret in the form of a substantial boot that stomps down on her right foot. After that the ground seems to pull itself up to meet her and she's left lying in a heap of leather and bruised flesh. Murder on the dance floor is not, it should be noted, always a figure of speech. Chloe's attacker yells something at her but it just gets lost in the screaming guitars and the banshee wail that is The Forks lead singer's voice. Pissed to say the least, Chloe balls her hand into a fist in hopes of getting another shot in...but that earns her a stinging slap across the face.. Soon after, a pair of hands slips under her arms and struggles in vain to lift her up back onto her feet which is something another member of the audience apparently takes issue with. The good samaritan shoves the attacker off Chloe with gusto. The shove's trajectory sends the erstwhile crowd surfer careening into a knot of fellow moshers, and, like that, the dominos fall one by one, culminating in a mosh pit brawl set to the raucous melodies of Oregon's punk scene darlings._

 

* * *

"What is your problem!?"

See, Chloe has defaulted to the singular form when it'd make more sense to use the plural form. It's an easy mistake to make in the heat of the moment, though. Most problems beyond the strictly academic ones tend to have multiple contributing factors as opposed to a single source. Since it's not like she can respond while a furious Chloe has her pinned against the wall by the throat, Max takes this time to mentally review the pressing issues in her life.

_Problem #1: My feet aren't touching the ground. Please, please let me down._

_Problem #2: I can't breathe so good after the gutshot. By the way, thanks for that._

_Problem #3: Rachel._

_Problem #4: WHY DON'T YOU RECOGNIZE ME? You're hurting me, Chloe!_

_Problem #5: Now that you ask...things got kinda hot and heavy between us last time around, I guess. I don't know how to be with you without that, uh, that sexual frustration scrambling my brain. In text or IRL, it gets me all the same._

"Wait, where's my beer? Aw fuck, you made me drop it!"

They have the back hall to themselves and judging by the continual thump of bass, the show is still going on. The spotty lighting in the hall certainly isn't doing Max any favors as she squirms in a desperate attempt to loosen the grip on her windpipe. If she could get a word in edgewise she might manage to get her best friend to connect the dots. Hope springs eternal that at any moment Chloe will finally figure out who she's choking. The overpowering smell of alcohol coming off Miss Price doesn't inspire much confidence, however.

"Say, you kinda look like someone," Chloe mutters.

Caught up in trying to place this random female concertgoer Chloe eases off on the pressure enough that Max is able to squeak out a single syllable.

"Chlo..."

The light upstairs flickers on at last.

"...Max? Oh shi-"

 

* * *

Someone's humming nearby when Max comes to in a bed that's too comfortable to be her own. The room smells like acrylic paint. She props herself up on an elbow and surveys her surroundings. Victoria is seated at a small craft table across from the bed, engrossed in the detail work of painting a large robot figurine that Max vaguely recognizes as being a Gundam. Here, as with her makeup work before, she guides the brush with surgical precision. Likewise, her brush strokes are light as a feather as she takes great pains to avoid smudging the paint job. To watch Victoria works is still an oddly zen experience. Several minutes pass before the model enthusiast clues in that her guest has roused from their fitful sleep. Said brush is then set on the palette as to not mix any paints together.

"There's our Sleeping Beauty. Hold on, let me get you something."

A reference that could be construed as a compliment? From Victoria? The posh blonde moves over to the mini-fridge and there's the sound of cans clinking against each other. She brandishes a beer can with a dramatic flair that'd make Vanna White proud before giving it a toss onto the bed. On closer inspection it's a ubiquitous name-brand beer. She'd have never guessed that Victoria had a thing for cheap beer given her usually refined taste in consumerism. The can is coated in beads of condensation and pleasingly cold to the touch.

Pop goes the tab on another can.

Victoria watches her guest from the corners of her eyes while she sips the foam off the top of her beer. The partially painted Gundam figurine is the sole witness to this moment of wordless bonding that the two share. Chock it up as a another pair of lost hearts brought together by the magic of underage drinking.

"You don't have to drink it. I just figured you'd want something for your eye."

A slow throbbing pain around her right eye, lost in the background noise, at last makes itself known. Max prods the delicate skin under her eye with two fingers and the jolt of pain that follows clinches that all is not well in the world of her face. Victoria brings over a makeup mirror that confirms as much. Her good mood sours a tad when she sees her reflection sporting a fresh black eye.

_That'd explain the Sleeping Beauty comment. I knew that a compliment from her was too good to be true._

"What happened?"

Victoria returns to her place at the craft table, upholds her modesty by sweeping her miniskirt beneath her as she sits, and then retrieves her paintbrush. In no time flat she's alternating between those painstaking brush strokes and recounting the missing pieces of the night's events.

"I arrived late. It was a quiet night and I was dying to see what outfit you ended up with. Not to mention that you stopped responding to my texts and neglected to send a photo of the finished product. And after I walked you through doing your own makeup, no less. "

She shoots a skewering glance from her position behind the figurine but her inflection is rather playful. Her chin comes close to resting on the table as she starts to finish the finer details of the ankles on the Gundam.

"The company you kept tonight has a certain reputation too. Tweedledee and Tweedledum were having at it when I got there, it was quite the spectacle. Nathan knew better than to get involved and made tracks. I thought it best that you ride back with me."

Victoria takes a swig of beer with the brush balanced deftly between her fingers. Max takes to holding her beer against her face as a makeshift cold compress.

"I doubt riding in that beater of a truck with two estranged lovers was what you would have wanted anyway. They were riled up to the point that you couldn't tell if they were getting ready to fuck each other's brains out or come to blows over what had gone down."

She pauses to drink some beer.

"Chloe was the one that did that to you, by the way. Sounds like you got into some trouble during the concert and she didn't put two and two together as to who you were. Some friend you've got there."

Victoria stops dead mid-brush stroke. She can tell that she's overstepped the boundaries of social decorum.

"Next time I'll drive."

Max nods in mute approval at this act of penance and climbs off the bed to put her beer back in the mini-fridge. She pivots to face Victoria.

"Thanks for today. I'm off to lick my wounds and question my life choices. But, hey, uh, that's a pretty neat hobby. I'd love to see some photos of your completed projects sometime if you have any. Yeah, so, thank you again. G'night."

Victoria lifts her beer in salute, "I'll see what I can manage. We'll do something about your shiner in the morning. Take care."

 

* * *

The door is open so Max creeps into room 224 to find that Rachel has already changed into her pajamas. The up-and-coming model's face is creased with worry on seeing that her friend is worse for the wear. But her real reason for visiting is slung over the back of Rachel's desk chair: her messenger bag. Rachel had volunteered to look after her valuables once she had convinced Max to experience a mosh pit on the basis that 'you only live once'. Inside the messenger bag all is as it should be with its thick layer of photographs, the vintage camera, her cell phone, and the excessive miscellany of a private school student.

With the conditions of the goods found to be satisfactory, the pair talks at length and no fewer than a hundred and one apologies are offered on Chloe's behalf. Yet what's missing from this picture is an explanation of where they went while Victoria whisked Max back to Blackwell. Rachel switches into public relations mode to predictably excellent effect, skirting around the issue and affirming that, yes, they did disembark together and precious little else of relevance.

During their chat Max remembers to check her cell phone for new messages. This is a mistake. Message notifications flood her feed with an outpouring of remorseful texts from (the noticeably absent) Chloe, messages from a contrite Rachel that apologize for the actions of the former, and some snapshots of painted models and figurines from Victoria. It's too much to parse then and there, so she ends up shutting it off in the spirit of procrastination. Rachel eventually produces a bottle of white wine and the two indulge in some after hours drinking that's filled with arguments over the merits of The Forks current lineup (everyone knows their bass player is trying too hard and that the lead singer is sleeping with the drummer!). Max also has nothing but nice things to say about her friend's concert outfit whereas Rachel insists that Max definitely must get a 'Love is my El Dorado' tattoo in the nearest of futures.

Midnight comes and goes without a fuss. A quarter past the hour is a different story, though, and so marks the duplicity of Rachel asking to check whether or not the padlock necklace Max has on actually functions as a lock. Buzzed and oblivious, it's not until Rachel tugs on the necklace with enough force to tip Max forward that she senses something may be amiss. Ever the bonafide smooth operator, Rachel wastes no time in catching her in an unexpected kiss. Out of her right mind by this point, the tipsy time traveler becomes flustered only after the kiss is well and truly over. She beats a hasty retreat to her own dorm room and shaves off a few seconds, setting a new personal record for the trip. Her wide-eyed flight from room 224 doesn't go unnoticed by one Kate Marsh. Nor does Kate fail to notice how Max has her fingers pushed against her lips in bewilderment; which is practically the universal sign of 'I just got kissed and I don't know how to feel about that'.

 

* * *

Morning dawns in Arcadia Bay, Oregon. The indigenous species of songbirds make a big deal out of this by trilling and chirping their respective mating calls at the top of their tiny lungs. Constructions workers hired by the Prescott Foundation get an early start on the day's work of deforesting another slice of deciduous forest for the upcoming Pan Estates project. Nathan Prescott is up early and questions the wisdom of agreeing to chauffer the girls to the concert before deciding that it was worth it in the end to improve his standing with the apple of his eye. Kate Marsh obsesses over the knowledge of the scandalous outfit and late night rendezvous that seems to indicate that her friend Max is a player. Indeed, Maxine Caulfield is a popular subject for the the sun-soaked ruminations of these morning hours. Rachel Amber wonders if she misread things and has succeeded in cratering her friendship in spectacular fashion. Chloe Price grapples with the fact that she drunkenly choked out her childhood friend right on the heels of sucker-punching her in a mosh pit. Nowhere near as dire as the rest, Victoria Chase tries to decide if she should ask her if she's seen the seminal work that is Mobile Suit Gundam: Char's Counterattack.

As for the girl herself, the one whom the blue butterfly follows, she directs her time and energy into attempting to solve the riddle of GC. Waking up? Ponder the meaning of GC Max. In the girl's bathroom as Victoria is dabbing on concealer and brushing on some blush to hide the black eye? Dissecting the bits and pieces of past visions in an exhaustive search for context. This is a young woman searching for meaning in the wake of recent events that have punctured the tenuous symbolism of her routine existence. Because it's easier than walking through the memory of Chloe, who she's always trusted beyond reproach, hurting her. Because she doesn't want to understand the implications of Rachel kissing someone other than Chloe. Because having Nathan (allegedly) leaving for fear of Chloe's and Rachel's combined wrath is darkly humorous, even borderline ironic, in light of his actions in the old timeline.

Seated at a computer in the photography lab that probably costs more than the total sum of her worldly possessions, Max contemplates the nature of the GC mystery. She flips it around in her head, end over end, and pursues ever more radical lines of logic until even the two letters that comprise it seem alien to her. Were it not for Kate's interruption she might have continued like that for the entire period.

"Pssst!"

Kate scoots her office chair closer and drops her voice down to a low whisper.

"I think someone was in my room while I was at class yesterday but I don't think anything was taken. Or at least I couldn't tell if it was."

Without waiting for a proper response Kate rolls her chair back to her computer and resumes tinkering with the photo editing software. Shortly after she hears Jefferson start a lazy circuit of the photography lab, peppering his students with vague non-statements about their progress in learning the basics of digital photo editing as he goes. Knowing full well that he's going to make his way to her sooner rather than later, Max begins to skip through some of the tutorial windows to cover the obvious lack of progress. By the time he makes his way around to her she can feel a pit burrowing into her stomach while he stands over her shoulder.

"Mhm, that looks good so far. Do be careful when playing around with contrast and hue, Max. The line between being worthy of a gallery and being worthy of Pinterest is fine indeed. Not to say that it's a bad platform for sharing art per se, but it has attracted a crowd that has plenty to learn about good photo composition. When in doubt, trust your instinct."

His words check many of the same boxes as his old lectures and the psychotic ramblings from back in the bunker. Topical reference to something 'the youth' would know? Check. Veiled criticism of the masses trying their hand at art, complete with shades of elitism and gatekeeping? Check and check. The gross assumption that success can be found in an art gallery setting and in an art gallery setting alone? Check. Top it off with a heaping helping of patronizing advice that could be found just as easily in a soda commercial and that's Jefferson photography class bingo.

"I can see what you mean, thanks Mr. Jefferson." Max says flatly.

"Please, call me Mark."

It's a small miracle that she resists the urge to throw up in her mouth.

Once he has moved on Max pounces into action, tapping her friend on the shoulder with due urgency. In short order she mouths 'are you okay?' to which Kate shrugs and mouths back 'we'll talk later'. Visibly frustrated by whatever's weighing on her mind, Kate clicks around on the editing software some more before rolling her chair next to Max again.

"What were you doing in Rachel's room late last night?"

"Getting my personal effects back." Max states calmly.

"It looked like you got more than that."

"Kate..."

Her classmate's stare is intense, laser-focused. It's clear that she won't be dissuaded from pursuing this until she's satisfied with the answer.

"I went to get my things. She had been drinking before I got there. Things got out of hand and then you know the rest."

"She's dating Chloe, isn't she?"

"I know."

"You're better than that Max. You are."

And that's the last word on the subject. Kate goes back to wrestling with the software and Max is left to think about what terrible things she did in her past life to deserve her present circumstances. In the background some of the other students, Victoria chief among them, ask how long they need to ineffectually stumble through photo editing before they can do some proper learning on the subject. Jefferson then promises that he'll get to that in the next class but reiterates that today is about free-form exploration of the tools they'll be using for the rest of the semester. None of it has any bearing on what GC stands for and since she has a nagging feeling that the meaning of GC matters quite a bit, she goes ahead and tunes out everything save for her own thoughts.

 

* * *

_Blue skies, waves, and books are the only company that the mousy brunette is keeping when she makes her approach. Stretched out on a beach towel and staring out at the horizon with those big blue eyes...there's something about the sight of it that makes Max look twice her age. Maybe she's just an old soul; Joyce says that about her sometimes. Chloe drops into a squat, her long shadow cast over Max, and lifts up a plastic bag of food._

_Mind if I join you?_

_Someone with brains, actual brains, and heart, and all that junk, would have been able to come up with a slick greeting. Chloe, under the illusion that she has none of these qualities, is forced to make do._

_"Hi Chloe."_

_She carefully removes an oversized burger from the bag and sets it on her friend's belly. Inside that shell of aluminum foil lurks a monstrous pile of beef, bun, cheese and grease. The sharp smell of ocean air can't begin to conceal its mouthwatering aroma. Max looks up into her eyes, freckled face devoid of emotion, as if searching for a reason to say anything. Chloe manages a goofy grin and nervously brushes some blue hair behind her ear in an unconscious mannerism that hasn't resurfaced for years._

_"So I'm going to do some talking and you just eat as much of that as you can. 'kay? Okay."_

_Max blinks. It's not the best reaction out there but it is a reaction._

_" I should have come to see you sooner. I didn't. Why? Uh, because I'm an idiot. There was a big fight with the missus and I actually don't even know if I can call her that anymore. Rachel and I, we're a thing. Were a thing? Yeah, maybe that's it."_

_Her mouth is moving faster than her thoughts so she stops to gulp in some air and gather her wits. This long-winded apology has got to go right, it just has to, or she'll never be able to live with herself again. There's a crinkle of foil as Max starts to unwrap the burger, her eyebrows going higher and higher as she unearths more of the glistening four patty calorie bomb that's drooling grease onto her nice shirt._

_"Kaboosh!"_

_Chloe fans her hands out for emphasis._

_"It went nuclear right before you came back. I couldn't be around her after what she'd done so I split. D-don't ask about the specifics. I guess the punch line's that this was going to be a minor fuck up compared to the dizzying new heights of failure I was about to visit. Seriously, between you and me, I think I may have elevated this to a new artform. Pun not intended."_

_A smile cracks for a split second before Max bulldozes over it with another professional poker face._

_"Let's say that a hypothetical girl may have interrupted another girl's crowd surfing session. Then that other girl might have accidentally kicked the hypothetical first girl as she was getting dragged down back to Earth. First girl gets mad. She doesn't like that and she's drunk, because she's a hot mess of a person at a punk concert. Takes a cheap shot. Second girl, who, I must restate, is also strictly hypothetical, may have retaliated. And then I'm choking you against a wall in the back hall of the venue – because I'm so good at not being good at life – and I'm sorry, so fucking sorry for everything."_

_Max closes her eyes, either reliving it or trying her best to block it out. Chloe realizes that she's been holding her breath waiting for some kind of acknowledgement from Max and has to force herself to exhale._

_"Who told you where I was?" Max asks._

_That's not quite what she's looking for._

_"Victoria chewed me out when I was snooping around Blackwell to try to find you. Straight up bit my head off, no joke."_

_There's a sniff. She's not sold on this apology yet._

_"What are the chances, huh? That we'd meet like that."_

_"It has nothing to do with chance."_

_If Max had any intention of elaborating on that, she doesn't follow through. But she does wrap two hands around the burger and take a chomp out of the thing that's going to be clogging her arteries for the next week straight._  

 


End file.
